Escaping Lloth's Web
by ElfWarrior
Summary: Dumb title, I know, but titles are my weak point. Two elves trapped as slaves in Menzoberranzan try to escape, and...read to find out. Very violent beginning.
1. Massacre

Disclaimer: The Forgotten Realms belong to TSR or Wizards of the Coast or something. All the characters in this story except Lloth belong to me, though.

A/N: Not all the chapters will be quite as violent as this one.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been here. Time had ceased to matter perhaps three months after they'd taken him, after they'd destroyed his home and brought him to this hellish place of starless nights and new moons. Only two others he knew of had survived the raid on the moon elf colony: Kishira and Ralirion. They had been captured with him, but neither was with him now. As soon as the group of drow had reached their city, dragging the moon elves in chains, they had sold Kishira to the gladiatorial pits. She was the only one of any true worth to the matriarchal drow, and she had been the fiercest warrior of the colony. Neither of her comrades had ever seen her again.

Ralirion had died a month and a half after their capture, presumably of despair. His surviving friend had sworn vengeance, but the fires that had once lit the elf's eyes were slowly fading as the days turned to weeks, the weeks to months, the months to years, an endless monotony of pain and drudgery.

*          *            *

Screams rang out as the fire blazed up, casting enough light to make the night appear as day. The ancient trees groaned in protest as hungry flames licked their branches. The human archers standing a safe distance away from the forest launched another barrage of burning arrows into its midst. One hit a slender form almost hidden by the branches of a tree, frantically scuttling down the trunk. The green elf fell to the ground with a cry, dying as he struck the earth.

"That's it," one of the men, a big, bearded fellow called Bran, hissed under his breath. "Burn the long-eared bastards out."

The elves were fleeing their forest home now, running out in scores and dying by the dozen. Bran drew his broadsword, smiling slightly in anticipation of the carnage to come. He turned to his troops. "Take no prisoners," he ordered. "They are all to die."

As soon as they saw the archers and mercenaries, the elves tried to halt or at least curb their frantic flight. It was no use. The humans charged. They knew this would be an easy fight—they outnumbered the primitive forest elves at least two to one, and the element of surprise was on their side.

An elf-child, little more than eight, ran past Bran. He cut her down without a second thought, grinning viscously. His next opponent was a tall warrior, armed with a pair of stone daggers. He held them up in an X to block the Bran's overhead chop. The blades shattered under the force of the blow, slowing the sword only a little before it crashed through the elf's skull.

An elderly shaman sent a bolt of lightning into a cluster of men. Bran killed her an instant later. A pair of young elves fought back to back. Bran took both their heads off with a single stroke. A wounded elf, his leg almost severed, tried to crawl away from the fight. Bran kicked him over and stabbed him, not bothering to finish him off. A tall elf-woman, her belly round with child, wielded a spear with surprising skill. Three dead men lay at her feet. Bran kicked her feet out from under her as she impaled a fourth. Her spear fell away with her last kill. She looked up at Bran, eyes filled with rage and hatred, and spat at him. Bran's grin widened. He brought his sword down with more pleasure than usual.

The mercenary heaved his weapon out of the dead elf's body, scanning the battlefield for his next victim. He didn't have long to wait. An elf came hurtling out of a knot of fighters, red braids flying behind her, swinging a longsword with deadly ease and headed straight for Bran. He raised his eyebrows. Most green elves didn't use steel, but this one apparently had no qualms about it. He hefted his sword and met her attack.

She skilled—very skilled. For the first time that evening, Bran found himself fighting defensively. Six passes later, she sliced a long gash down his right arm. He cried out—more in surprise than pain—and fought back with renewed vigor. How _dare the little bitch hurt him?_

His rage blinded him, made him clumsier, and the elf soon knocked his sword out of his hands. She followed this with a kick to the stomach that knocked him over backwards. He felt the tip of her sword slide across his throat. "Better than scum like you deserve, human," she gritted, kicking his side.

Bran gave a gurgle, and watched in astonishment as a short crossbow bolt sprouted from the elf's shoulder. She tore it out, grimacing with pain, and turned to meet her latest threat.

A drow elf stepped out of the shadows. Bran's eyes widened with fear, then glazed over in death.

The green elf blocked the drow's lunge, wondering what such a creature was doing here. Her question was answered when two score more drow appeared as if from nowhere, racing onto the field and slaying both human and elf. _They must have planned a raid the same night as the humans, she thought. __Damn our luck!_

Bran's killer kicked the sword out of her newest enemy's hand and stabbed him. She had no time to follow that with a mercy stroke—another dark elf was on her. This one held a saber in one hand and a long dagger in the other. She grinned and feinted left with her saber, stabbing from the right with her dagger.

The green elf dove between the blades, turning sideways and dragging the edge of her sword across the drow's throat. She shoved the other woman's body from her, darting away as it fell.

Before midnight, the battle was over. It couldn't truly be called a battle—it was more of a massacre. There was little space between the bodies on the field, and every square inch was soaked in blood. Only the drow remained standing. Everyone else was dead.

Their leader looked around her at the carnage, a savage grin on her face, unaware that the human mercenary captain had done exactly that before his death not long ago. "Kalish," she called.

The summoned soldier walked up silently and bowed. "Yes, Lady Thatalia?"

"How many did we lose?"

"Fourteen, lady, and six of them to the same warrior."

Thatalia Baenre raised her eyebrows. Her grin faded to a crafty smile. "Where is this warrior? Dead?"

"No, lady. She was taken alive, to await your convenience."

"Bring her to me."

A pair of drow dragged up the unconscious elf. Thatalia grabbed her chin and lifted her face up.

She was ordinary enough, for an elf, but beautiful by human standards. Her hair was long and red, tamed into many tiny braids, all of which were held back by a rawhide strip. Her quiver was empty, as was the scabbard strapped across her back. "Where are her weapons?"

"Here, lady."

Thatalia ran a hand down the bloodstained length of steel. "Do you think we should kill her, Kalish?" she asked casually.

"She would make an excellent slave, lady," the drow hedged, not willing to commit to one answer for fear Thatalia would disagree. "But it is your decision."

Thatalia nodded abruptly. She sliced the leather straps of the green elf's quiver and scabbard. Both fell to the ground. Thatalia scooped up the scabbard and sheathed the sword. "She comes with us," she ordered. "Bring her in chains."


	2. Slave

Well, I guess it did stay kinda gory at parts. This must be my morbid-and-depressing story. But this chapter STILL isn't as violent as the last one.

This hard manual labor was more suited to dwarves or orcs, not elves, but he had grown used to it long ago. As far as he could tell the day's—or night's, he had no real way of knowing—work was almost over. He swung the pickaxe again, letting the rhythm drive all thoughts from his mind. Rise, fall. Rise, fall. Rise, fall. Rise, fall.

The chain clipped to the iron collar around his neck was jerked sharply. He stumbled as the line moved along, back to the slave quarters. A whip lashed across his back. "Keep yourself up!" the drow overseer snapped.

The silver elf bowed his head and kept walking, ignoring the burn of the welt. He'd had worse.

The drow locked the tired slaves, still chained in a line, into their quarters. The elf leaned against the wall, head tilted back, dreaming of stars. He had to keep going, keep living...

But what was the point? Would he ever escape this hell?

The door swung open with an ominous thud. "Bring her in, bring her in!" a harsh drow voice shouted.

"Watch out!" another cried. The slaves heard a yelp of pain, the crack of a whip, and a scream—of outrage rather than pain.

Three drow dragged an elf into the room. Each held a chain, the other end of which was clipped around her neck or wrists. She was fighting and kicking, making them earn every step of the way. A fourth drow stood to the side, fingering his whip. He stepped forward and clubbed the chained elf over the head. She stumbled, dazed, and the drow kicked her feet out from under her. His comrades dragged her over to the slave line, ignoring her frantic efforts to right herself.

"Company," one of the drow joked to the silver elf, who gave him a blank, dead-eyed look.

As soon as the new elf had been chained to the space where the wall and floor connected, the drow left. All the slaves could hear the sound of the bolt sliding into place, sealing their doom.

The new elf gave her chains a few experimental tugs as the first elf stared at her. She was obviously a forest elf—she wore battered leather, dyed to blend into her woodland home—and her sleeveless tunic revealed a flowing tattoo on her right arm: on the back of her palm was an arrow, wrapped about with vines. The vine traveled up around her arm in a spiral, ending twined about the right forefoot of a howling wolf. Above the wolf was a many-rayed star. And if that wasn't enough, her hair was braided in patterns typical of green elves, and her green eyes were wild and fierce. Her left shoulder was bloody and sloppily bandaged.

She turned to the silver elf. "Who are you?"

He started and hesitated for a moment, trying to remember his own language. "What?" he asked in a voice scratchy from disuse.

"Who are you? What's your name?"

He'd almost forgotten completely. It took him a moment to remember. "Valinon," he said at last. "It's Valinon."

"I'm Starfire. How long have you been here?"

"Too long."

_Blood and fire—ashes and despair—_

"What have you found?" she queried eagerly.

"What?"

"What have you found? Anything that could help an escape?"

Valinon looked away. "There is no way out."

Starfire was silent for a moment. "You have been here too long," she whispered finally. "They've broken you."

"There is no way out," Valinon repeated. "You loose track of time. You loose yourself. You loose hope."

"I—"

"Don't say you won't. Everyone does. They are all wrong. We will all die here, and death, when it comes, will be a relief."

Starfire shook her head. "You've let them ruin you. They've won when you start thinking like that."

"Tell me that we shall escape when they've beaten you until your back runs with blood, when you've seen your friends sold away, and the ones they don't sell die slowly before your eyes, and you are helpless to stop them. Tell me then, and I'll believe you."

Starfire's eyes narrowed. "I'll hold you to that."

"Sleep while you can," Valinon advised. "The only rest that truly comes to us here is death."

"You're too morbid," she snapped, and rolled onto her side away from him, hissing with pain as she strained the wound in her shoulder.

Valinon lay down with his back to hers and closed his eyes. He eased away from the rising welt and began to drift off, but scant minutes later, Starfire spoke again. "They can't sell my friends away."

"Hm?" Valinon was almost asleep.

"They can't sell my friends," she repeated. "They're all dead." She took a deep breath. "A band of humans attacked us first—they'd been trying to cut down the forest, and we wouldn't let them. Then the drow attacked and killed everyone except me."

"One less weakness," Valinon said callously.

A soft-booted heel kicked the back of his knee hard. Valinon stifled a cry and grabbed the injured joint. "Bastard," Starfire snarled, and went to sleep.

*          *            *

Valinon woke, as always, to the sound of a scream as the drow whipped the prisoners awake. It was always this way—they'd sneak into the room and snap the whip at an unlucky someone whose screams would awaken the others. The more experienced slaves knew how to jump into wakefulness at the drop of a hat, and so, apparently, did Starfire.

The screams this morning came from an older slave, the only other elf in the compound. He was a gold elf, and Valinon did not know his name. But apparently, today he had had enough. He wouldn't stand up. It wasn't until he stopped screaming and began instead to moan weakly with every fall of the whip that Valinon realized that he _couldn't get up._

At last the gold elf staggered to his feet, but he didn't walk forward. He faced the drow, ignoring the lash that flicked dangerously close to his eye, across his forehead. Blood dripping into his face, he bared his teeth and shouted, a broken-hearted cry that came from the depths of his soul, _"When will you let me die?!"_

The drow brought the whip down hard across the gold elf's eye. He screamed again, clapping his hands to his face. Blood dripped between his fingers. "Kill me!" he managed. "Go ahead, do it! I will not work for you anymore! I do not care what you do to me!"

One of the other drow drew her sword. Valinon glanced at Starfire. The green elf strained against her chains, jaw clenched shut. "It will be a relief," he whispered to her. "A blessing. Let him go. The rest of us should envy him—and most of us do."

"Never give up," she hissed back. "There is still hope. There is _always hope."_

"Not for him. Not for me."

The drow casually gutted the gold elf, who only screamed once. "Chain the new one in his place," she ordered. "And you, Shaktin, clean up this mess."

A human girl of about ten stared at the gold elf's body. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "Naishír," she whispered. "You killed Naishír..."

Naishír's killer grinned wickedly. "Wait," she commanded to those who held Starfire's chains. "Watch." She turned her grin on the girl. "Do you want me to do you the same way, human?"

The girl backed away fearfully, but she couldn't get far before her chains stopped her.

"Raidin, give me your whip."

Raidin handed her the whip. She turned back to the cowering girl and raised it over her head, but she didn't bring it down. Starfire had grabbed the end and now kicked the drow's side. They went down in a tangle, the wild elf using her chains as weapons. She was clearly the better fighter, and it wasn't long before she had a chain looped around her enemy's neck and began strangling her. The other dark elves rushed her, but with a quick snap she broke the drow woman's neck. Snatching up the discarded sword, still stained with Naishír's blood, Starfire hopped to her feet and had one drow down clutching his belly, another disarmed, and the third retreating before Valinon was truly sure what had happened.

"Go get help!" Raidin snapped to Shaktin, who fled.

"Help me!" Starfire shouted to the slaves, but before anyone could do anything else, a squad of drow soldiers burst in, weapons draw and ready.

"They were right outside," Shaktin explained with a smile.

"Put down the sword," the head of the squad snarled at Starfire.

Valinon looked at him and his stomach tightened. He knew that elf.

_Screams and dying--pain and tears—_

A tall slender drow woman made her way through the ranks. She saw Starfire and smiled. "You again!" She sounded delighted.

Starfire spat at her. She laughed. "Temper, temper, my slave!"

"She is yours, Lady Thatalia?" the leader asked. Valinon knew his name. It was Lanath. Valinon would never _forget his name._

"She is, caught in last night's raid. I hadn't quite an idea of the prize I possessed."

"Indeed, my lady, she does seem wasted in the mines," he agreed. So familiar, that voice, as if it had been yesterday...

"I think it is the gladiatorial pits for her, don't you, Lanath?"

"My thought exactly, my lady."

"I could kill myself," Starfire interrupted. All eyes snapped to her. "I could," she continued, "but I won't. I'll go with you—" Her disgust showed plain on her face, "—without resisting, if you do one thing for me."

"And what might that be?" Thatalia's tone was teasing.

"A gladiator needs servants, to keep her weapons clean while she rests, to remind her to stay on task. You wouldn't want your prize fighter to forget to eat until she wastes away, would you, Thatalia? And I assure you, I will be the best. You must let me take the silver elf—" Starfire pointed to Valinon, "—and that girl." She gestured behind her at the human.

Lanath laughed. That laugh—Valinon remembered how it had echoed in his ears as he watched Arishae, dear little Arishae, die before his eyes, helpless to go to his daughter and hold her—

_Loss and rage—agony and fear—_

"It seems an inconsequential request, lady."

For the first time in over a decade, feeling awoke in Valinon's soul again. Rage.

_I will never forget! Valinon's mind screamed. __You killed Arishae! You killed Eorryn! And I will kill you!___

"I wouldn't want to lose such a fighter." Thatalia nodded. "Raidin, Shaktin, Lanath, take the three of them to the gladiator's quarters."


End file.
